


the theory of relativity

by whateverliesunsaid



Series: a study in pond [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 15:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10879515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverliesunsaid/pseuds/whateverliesunsaid
Summary: 5 times Amy Pond silently falls for Rory Williams and the one time he sees it.





	the theory of relativity

_ I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,    _

_ I love you directly without problems or pride:  _

_ I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,  _

_ except in this form in which I am not nor are you,    _

_ so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,    _

_ so close that your eyes close with my dreams. _

 

**______**

Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII

 

* * *

 

 

> **i.**

The sun’s light dawns on him like a protection spell, underneath sunshine the golden boy is at his realm; awkward, sitting with his legs crossed underneath himself, a fist holding his face up, eyes staring into nothingness for an amount of time she cannot possibly fathom. She’s been looking at him for so long now, brows furrowed above deep green eyes with the punishing sun light making her eyes water, that the mere concept of time has been completely forgotten. 

 

Both bored out of their minds in that summer break haze, it felt like all the universe was confined to the space in Amy’s backyard where they could lie on the sun and pretend. Sometimes she played a telltale game where he was her raggedy man, out in space, watching unthinkable wonders pass them by; in others, they were a married couple in the Caribbean islands for their deserved vacations. By the end of it, it was always a good laugh. They were never themselves, truly. In her mind, they were the stuff of fairy tales.

 

Underneath the sunlight, he didn’t need any time machine to be so. 

 

With gentle surprise, Amy discovers that he is beautiful. Something she learns with a discreet pleasure she can’t quite understand. The breeze turns the pages in her book and she’s stolen away from him, eyes shifting down to the flailing pages as she tries to find her way back. Awoken from his daydreams, Rory’s eyes, too, shift, from the trees to her hair, flaming and so very unusual underneath the light. In his mind, he finds that she  **glows** .

 

> **ii.**

She can hear the rain drops crashing on the roof, on the trees just by her window, in the walls outside and someway, inside her home, cascading down on her body. Her head. Louder and louder. The silence inside is an invitation for echo. Lying underneath the covers, Amy feels as though she is cowering away. For the girl born for battle, sometimes it is difficult to decide which ones are battle-calls  and which are not. Sometimes, she just wants to fight something. There and then, she wanted to fight the silence. Her loneliness. The universe.

 

Huffing, she pushes her cover away from her head, eyes darting through the door to the dark shade of blue in her corridor walls. In the first floor, there is the phone. Just on the other end, she  _ knows _ , is Rory. Always on duty. How could she live without him?

 

Sometimes it baffles her that he would come; (even under this torrential pissing rain) he would come and  _ stay _ . Bring a movie tape, smiles and conversation. He’d bring the noise of the popcorn in the kitchen and the smell of something that feels much more like home than this earthly smell of petrichor that lingers and lingers in this big, empty house. Without warning or realization, she finds herself longing for his presence.

 

Her hurried shoeless steps down the stairs are a marathon, the chilling floors sending a shiver up her body as she holds the landline, the digits of his phone number so ingrained in her memory that it almost feels like  _ hers. ‘it’s my emergency number’ _ , she’d explain if confronted. There was never any help to be found at home.

 

A beep goes past and she leans on the counter, free arm wrapped around herself. The windows just across her display a sight she dreads to look at. Fire simply can’t coexist with water, can it? Another beep is all it takes for his voice to ring on her side, warming.

 

“Hm— hello? Rory speaking.” It always amused her how he always seemed to be unsure of whether the call was or wasn’t directed at that particular number. Chuckling, she replied, “Got anything to watch? I’m  _ bored _ ”. 

 

The ease into which their conversation falls is unique to the way they recognize and understand each other, their vocabulary a code they had already cracked and mastered many a times before. The actual conversation is short. She hangs up first, putting the water in the kettle and sighing, much more pleased with her arrangement now.

 

She doesn’t bother rushing anywhere to find better looking clothes, or fix her hair, and he finds her beautiful just the same. She welcomes him with the grin of a traveler who finally walks into their home after many years. In her body language, one can read a universe of ‘ _ yes, yes. At last. It’s been too long. _ ’

Looking down to the covers of The Shining and Jurassic Park, she shakes her head, grin growing in excitement and she teases, “oh, I could kiss you, Rory Williams”.

 

And sometimes, she would. Just to make him blush.

 

> **iii.**

The anger that boils in the pit of her stomach is not directed at him. And neither is the hot tears or the ever-lasting rant that she enrolls in. But when he sits there, quietly but attentively, she can’t help but let him be the one. Force the role of another jerk that only wanted to take and take on him, the one who only ever gave.

 

It didn’t matter. She was sick and tired and the anger was exhausting her. But the worse was when she could only be the winner. The one who takes it in stride and makes a scene not by crying and screaming, but by making  _ him _ feel for it. ‘your loss, babe’, she would’ve said, had Rory been the stronger, taller, thick jock who tried her. A grin that could only tease and slay. She was nothing if not a girl one could die for. Behind closed doors, with only the ears of the one she was used to lie the weight of her heaven and earth’s ‘pon, her frustration ran free.

 

_ Why wasn’t she ever enough to have anyone stay? _

_ What did she do to deserve this? _

_ When did she go wrong? _

 

She answered her own questions. Bitterness and swears flowing in a speed and accent mingled with unintelligible muttering and loud, biting irony; a cacophony of pain. Sometime later, he knew, it would wear off and then she’d grieve her own hurt, lick her own wounds. And scoot by his side, whispers so low it was almost as if she’d thought them into his mind. So, he’d assure her in every way that she was not the problem, though she did have  _ a despicable taste in men _ . Sometimes she’d smile at that, sometimes her mind would wander beyond his reach. In any case, at some point she would always remark about how she needed a guy  _ like _ him. Ask where to find them in a quip so weak he would have to do all the work to make it funny, his pride hurting at the idea that she’d always choose anyone but him. But worried about her just the same, abnegating himself just the same.

 

In this one particular time, nothing was ever  _ fair _ . Not for her, for always having everything stolen right from between her fingertips; and for him, for always having to listen… falling loudly on her bed, legs hanging over the edge, she took a deep breath. 

 

“Oh, Rory” she whimpers, barely audibly. Then, it is up to him to stand and move to her side, arms almost touching as they both faced the ceiling. Her fingers follow the trail of his warmth to his hand, tangling them together. He squeezes her hand, carefully. Sometimes the stoic Amy Pond was so frail he thought one mindless brush would break her. 

 

It happens almost like nature enrolls in its tiny miracles, slowly and all at once, in a way that feels perfectly right despite its novelty, choreographed even. She turned her body to the side, facing him, free hand a fist on her chest. With her eyes almost closed, all she could do was  _ feel _ his fingers detangling from hers and settling her hand on his chest, his  left arm then passing underneath the curve of her hips for his hand to settle at the middle of her back, sweetly like a lover’s embrace. His right hand then grabbing a hold of her fingers on his chest, almost akin to partners waltzing would.

 

Before the slumber took her away, she let her head fall on him and wondered about the differences between him and her (now) ex. How then she was clinging onto a body that felt strong and hot but not like it was right, a lust induced battle for control. It was all temporary, a  _ placeholder until something better showed up _ ; and how now it simply felt like something clicked. As cliché as it may sound. It felt as though she deserved the warmth, the friendly home who didn’t expect anything from her. She  _ deserved _ Rory. And she loved him, deeply and truthfully. Something she didn’t dare spoil with her rubbish words and mad, impossible mind.

 

“You deserve someone who’s crazy about you, you know”, she whispered, words mingled along with each other and Rory’s light chuckle warned her to the fact that he was, too, falling asleep. 

 

“Goodnight, Amy.”, he replied softly.

 

She slipped into her sleep with an ease she hadn’t known in ages. No bad dreams for Amy Pond that night.

 

> **iv.**

 

Rory lingers in the outskirts of the gathering, alone after both Melody and Amy went out on their personal businesses. His drink warms up in his hand to the point drinking it could potentially burn his galaxy down to ashes. He looks at it, swirling it around mindlessly and thinks to himself:  _ i’m never letting Amy pick me a drink ever again. _

 

The drink is a concoction made of carnation shades. It’s strong, with slices of strawberry floating on top and it’s just  _ so very Amy _ . It reminds him of the many, many times she’s danced under the sunlight for his and Melody’s delight. Something fierce laughing under the sky, loud-mouthed and brash, wild and unique. All the things he wasn’t, all the characteristics that made the scottish girl in the english village the girl of his dreams.

 

Sometimes he can hear her laugh whenever the music is not as loud. Whenever it doesn’t feel like they’re trying to make his heart change pace along the beat, or when the rattling of his ribcage is not as terrifying. Beside him, a girlish chatter manages to slip his grasp (again). He raises his brow and the girl repeats her words:  _ do you wanna dance? i love this song! _

 

He shakes his head, looking around, searching for something to hold onto. In the middle of the crowd, Amelia dances in the way she always does: like no one’s watching. Except everyone always is. Is in the nature of her job, isn’t it? To be exciting, fun, desirable.

 

Not that anyone ever had to tell Amy Pond to be any of those things.

 

The girl pulls at his arm, soft and not at all right, her blonde hair stuck underneath a flower crown. He knows she looks beautiful and that he’s lucky she wants to dance with him but he shakes his head more times than she’s willing to deal with before she’s hurt and bored by him and leaves to find a pair of feet more suited to the dancefloor than his. More willing to dance than he is. 

 

It’s hardly as if Rory isn’t interested in it, it’s more of a matter of waiting for  _ the right partner _ . 

 

* * *

 

“ _ C’mon, let’s go outside, Pond! _ ” Frank invites, a cigarette between his fingers, his breath something fierce. He looks just like her every guy: tall and strong, brunette and demanding — emotionally unavailable at best. A new chance to repeat old mistakes. Amelia Pond likes her life wild, evergreen. Something new at every turn. He pulls rather strongly at her sleeve while she’s chatting to her mates and she’s suddenly  _ bored of him. _

 

Not only that, no. She’s brewing a wicked type of upset — a very specific style of done with this. Done with being bossed around, with the following, with feeling lonely all the time. With the being bloody unhappy all of the goddamn time and his not caring at all. Done with him only calling her at the late hours, when he wanted her. Never when she needed him, no. Done with ‘keeping it private’ while he went about to snog every other girl and she could barely talk to her best friend.

 

That’s when she saw him — Rory awkwardly leaning against a wall and looking at this girl whose eyes just  _ shone  _  —  and consequently,  _ her _ . That is also when she decides that she’s not going to wait another second. An uncomfortable brand of uneasiness sitting in the bottom of her stomach, rioting.  _ Why waste time on this when i want something else? _

 

She excuses herself, pulling him along to a room where he could hear her loud and clear: _we’re finished, frank. and for the fucking record, you suck in bed. so stop pretending you’re bloody casanova —_ _you’ve got a nice mug and all but that shit doesn’t last. don’t trust me, look at your hairline in the mirror and check it out._

 

She walks out of the room and now it’s his turn to shout, but she moves through the crowd and she doesn’t bother looking around. She knows Melody is following her right up and all she sees is Rory, the crowd parting itself in half and suddenly she’s Moses in that one bible tale she can’t recall the name of. The music is over and Frank is shouting an universe worth of profanity and all she can see is Rory chugging his drink down before she reaches for his hand and he takes it. His cheeks red and his eyes concerned. There’s nothing in the world he cares more about right now than whether Amy Pond is fine and she’s fully aware of it. She smiles at him, wicked. She doesn’t bother asking where did the girl go or apologise. Instead, she pulls him out of the party behind herself. 

 

Frank’s voice echoing, hilarious to her ears:  _ I can’t believe you’re leaving me for him! _

 

If he knew her he’d know: she’s leaving for  _ herself _ .

 

* * *

 

Rory Williams knows the truth — just not all of it.

 

* * *

 

Melody laughs when Amy tells the story over breakfast, tossing coins up that much like Rory’s heart that morning never seemed to fall back down.

 

> **v.**

 

“Do you really think she’s got a chance to win?” she questioned, mindlessly, as they sat next to one another in the sofa, a big bowl of popcorn keeping them apart. His hand reaches into the bowl and he shrugs for a moment, filling his mouth full again before he actually gets to speak. 

 

Meanwhile, the sound of the girl’s singing — not too shabby, Amy admitted once, although she wouldn’t root in the slightest for anyone that wasn’t her absolute favorite — filled the space between them. Rory’s textbooks in a pile hid just behind a couple of pillows, a reality tv show and Amy Pond. A temporary fix-it for all of his finals-week stresses. When he walked into his house to find her perched in his couch, playing with his cat, he couldn’t help but wonder if he could handle that feeling every day of his life if he ever got the chance. He didn’t know if his heart would make it but the man was willing to try.

 

“She’s good.” he answered, voice filled with a husky, worn out tiredness that is specific to those weeks. She hums in acquiescence.  _ She is _ . “Don’t you?” it’s his turn to ask, turning his head over to her. His neck crooked back to lay his head on the back support. 

 

“I guess,” the song is finished and the girl smiles triumphantly. The crowd claps and cheers before the first judge decides it's his chance to nitpick at her every choice. Amy winces at the criticism like it’s aimed at her. “I don’t know. She’s following her dream, i can respect that.”

 

He furrows his brows, curious.  _ Waiting _ . But she doesn’t say anything and he decides it’s best to wait until she’s ready. A boyband sings an overplayed song and Amy is still silent, focused only on the moving images on the screen. This domesticity doesn’t scare him too much but he stays quiet as not to spook her away. Much like Peppers, his family cat, sometimes she’d run off if he ever moved too quickly. This quiet stake-out, however, is too much for the student and Rory dozes off mid-program, his head leaning sideways, slipping down the couch into her, risking a face full of popcorn.

 

She leans her own head into his, thinking. The theme song rings out as the final credits roll up the screen and Amy Pond doesn’t see it. Instead, she predicts a future where she and Rory do this all the time in a home of their own, one that looks just so much like them. A place where she isn’t scared of _ not going anywhere _ because it’s already the final destination. She finds, surprisingly, that she’s not disgusted by it. In fact, it’s a pleasant dream. She puts the popcorn bowl on top of the little table and lays him more comfortably on the couch.  _ Just for a moment _ , she assures herself.

 

When she lays in the armchair, she promises herself that it’s all okay. _ It’s just Rory _ . Before the sun rises, she flees. By then, however, the damage is already done.

 

> **vi** : the one time he  **_sees_ **

 

They’re off on one of those dates he seemed to have planned since the day they met, sitting on the back rows of a crowded library at her favorite writer’s reading meant to be followed by an interview. She’s holding onto the paper where she wrote her question like it means  _ everything _ . The reading slips by him, too enthralled by the her image to really hear it, and before he knows it, she’s standing up to ask a question.

 

She swallows hard before adopting a well-rehearsed charming smile, her paper still a ball against her chest when she asks: _“you write a lot about falling in love in your book, which i love, also, just saying— but my question actually— it’s a bit of a weird one, so stick with me, please, but_ _how do you know you’ve fallen in love?”_

 

The entirely library hushes to silence and she slinks back into her spot, red and still as engaged as ever. He knows the answer to the question before the writer says it. That’s something Rory Williams has know since the first day he saw her across the schoolyard.  _ You just do _ . The writer, however, speaks about it at length and Amelia dawns at a realization midway through it. Wide-eyed and, for once, very knowing. All eyes on them as the writer’s voice softens:  _ you know how it is. _

 

When she pulls him in for a kiss, the library roars in applause. He knew how it was to fall all along but Rory also knew how it felt to fly. Amelia knows, then, that there’s no running, no denying and there’s no bargaining about it now. 

 

The one definitive she kept running from was now presented in front of her like a banquet and she, savage and hunger-stricken, ravaged her way through it. Star-esque, she burned all that she touched. 

 

And he thanked the heavens for it all the while.

**Author's Note:**

> It literally took me almost an year to write this and yet!!!! still trash. Please indulge me, people.


End file.
